


A Fowl Tale

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, M/M, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 06:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sentinel Fractured Fairy Tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fowl Tale

PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 3.2 Final//EN">

A Fowl Tale

## A Fowl Tale

by PJ

Jim, Blair and the rest of The Sentinel gang belong to Pet Fly Productions, not me. Dang it.

For Gena.our Muse, our Inspiration.

This story first appeared in the zine "Senses of Humor". As farce and humor are two of the most subjective forms of entertainment known, I fully realize that this little offering will not be everyone's cup of tea. Constructive criticism will be gratefully appreciated.

* * *

**A FOWL TALE**

The warm sun was shining brilliantly in a cerulean blue sky and lively choruses of bird song filled the sweet-scented Spring air as a playful breeze played gentle tag with pedestrians' hair. All in all, not a typical day in Cascade, and that alone should have clued in Jim Ellison--Cascade PD's best detective and all-around stud muffin--that something was seriously amiss. Parked illegally as usual in front of Hargrove Hall, Rainier University's anthropology building, the detective was blissfully unaware of the turmoil and horror about to overtake him. Busily engaged in plotting ways and means of having his wicked way with his favorite sex toy and cuddlebug, Blair Sandburg, Jim had no energy to waste on pondering meteorological foreshadowing. After all, it had been almost four hours since he had dropped Blair off, reluctantly recognizing the academic logic that mandated a teacher had to be present when mid-terms were given. But, now, Sandburg's bothersome classes were over and his young lover could return to his rightful place at his Sentinel's side. Jolted from his musings by the sound of the truck door opening, Ellison turned and gave the grad student a wide smile. 

"Hey there, baby. Classes go okay?" 

"Yeah." Sandburg reached over and planted a butterfly kiss on the older man's cheek before fastening his seat belt. "How'd your morning go? Any new cases?" 

"Nah, slow day for some reason." Putting the old Ford into gear, Ellison left the usual amount of rubber on the tarmac as he tore across the parking lot and careened onto University Drive. Opening his mouth to proposition Sandburg, something caught the corner of his eye. Mouth dropping open, he wildly wondered if this was some new form of zone-out as he abruptly stomped on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a slewing, rubber-burning halt. 

"Jesus, Jim! Next time, warn a guy before you hit the force wall, all right?!" Seat belt or no, Blair peeled himself off the dashboard and glove compartment. Trying to shake the creases out of his body, it was some time before he realized that Ellison hadn't moved since stopping the truck, let alone answered him. 

'Oh, god, I hope he hasn't zoned!' Sliding over on the bench seat until he was practically in the cop's lap, he attempted to turn Ellison's face to him, saying soothingly, "It's all right, Jim. Follow my voice..." 

"Chief, do me a favor, willya?" Jim's voice was its usual calm and level self. 

"Sure, Big Guy, anything," Sandburg promised rashly. "What?" 

"Tell me I'm having hallucinations." 

That the last thing he had ever expected to hear, Sandburg's lower jaw decided to become acquainted with the floorboard of the truck, and it was sometime before he could pick it up and get his mouth in working order. 

Meanwhile, Jim was continuing in a matter-of-fact tone, "It's just that, y'see, I'd rather be seeing things than having a nervous breakdown. Hallucinations are usually short-term and the recommended therapy doesn't normally include nasty things like shock treatments or trying to find pictures in some stupid ink smear left by a leaking pen." 

Thoroughly confused by this point, Blair protested, "But, Jim, what makes you think you're having hallucinations?" 

"Cause I just saw a large, white pig go flying past that building over there to land in the pond." 

Huffing a huge sigh of relief, Blair sank back against the truck seat and ran a hand through his curls. "Oh, is that all." 

Faintly nettled at this understated reaction to his insanity, Ellison said irritably, "Did you hear me, Sandburg? I said I just saw a flying pig!" 

"I heard you." Taking a deep breath, the younger man attempted to reassure his piqued lover. "You're not seeing things, Jim, or having a nervous breakdown." 

"I'm not, huh?" Scowling, Ellison shot a heavy glare at the other man. 'I'll have a nervous breakdown if I want to!' he thought stubbornly. "So it's perfectly natural to see flying pigs, is it?" he drawled sarcastically. 

"Today it is," said Blair calmly. "It's the Sigma Chi Pi's annual Chester White Day. See, there goes another one." 

Ellison turned to look back out the windshield in time to see a hefty porker do a perfect swan dive into the rather mucky pond behind fraternity row. "What in the hell is going on here, Sandburg?" demanded Ellison. The glint in the sky blue eyes told the younger man that, while Ellison might be unaware of the reason for the sky-surfing swine, the cop was perfectly prepared to believe that it was somehow Sandburg's fault. 

Sighing, Blair launched into a somewhat garbled explanation. "See, back in the 60's, Rainier didn't have a spring break like most universities. The student body pleaded, begged and signed petitions, but the university regents ignored them. Then, the chancellor had to go and open his mouth and well, you can see the result," he finished just as another bacon-on-the-hoof Mark Spitz hit the drink. 

"Sandburg..." 

"Umm, yeah, the chancellor said that Rainier would have a spring break when pigs fly." Beaming expectantly at Jim, Sandburg's face fell at the continued stony glare. "The chancellor's name was Chester White, and when someone happened to announce that there's a breed of pig by that name, the Pi's couldn't resist. The next time spring break came around, they built a pigapult and rigged it so the chancellor could see it from his office. They didn't want to hurt the poor pigs, so they hurled them into the pond. Chancellor White had to back down, you see, and it sort of turned into a tradition. Every year, at the start of spring break, the Pi's build a pigapult and celebrate the time when pigs fly. I guess you've just never been on campus before at the right time." 

Re-starting the truck, Ellison quickly pulled away before another member of the US (University Swine) Swim Team could make a go for the gold. 

Several minutes later, tiring of the continual mumblings and dark glances, Blair ventured, "Jim, are you mad at me?" He loaded his most lethal pout onto his lips, deep blue eyes wide and pleading. 

"Mad? Why the fuck should I be mad?" Then, Ellison made the tactical mistake of looking over at his passenger; righteous indignation oozed out, leaving his spine soft while parts further south stiffened. "Nah, I'm not mad at you, Chief. It's just that..." 

"Jim, look out!" 

Reacting instinctively to his partner's warning yell, Ellison slammed on the brakes, managing to bring the Ford to a shuddering halt just inches from the rear bumper of a police car. "What the hey..." he began, the roaring noise of a crowd impinging on his sensitive ears. 

"What is it, Jim? What's all the fuss about?" 

Focusing his sentinel sight on the milling, clamorous clump of humanity several blocks away, Jim said slowly, "Looks like some kind of riot, Chief." He opened the truck door, stepping out. "I'd better go see what's going on. You stay put where it's safe, and call for more back-up. It looks like it's turning ugly." 

"Jim!" Before Sandburg could utter a protest, Ellison was gone, speeding straight toward the contentious contingent. Muttering dire threats under his breath, Blair reached for his cell phone. 

Long, interminable minutes later, Jim was finally able to step back and take a deep breath as his fellow police officers herded the crowd into two parts. It had gotten violent, all right, though at least the aggression wasn't aimed, for once, at the police. Shaking his head, he surveyed one group, waving at the paramedics to come on in. There didn't seem to be any major injuries, thank god, for all that the other group had been using strange weapons. Unsurprised to find his partner standing next to him, hair and clothing somewhat more disheveled than usual, Ellison headed toward the other group, coming to a halt before the mass of people brandishing file cards, rubber stamps, and bar code readers like seasoned warriors. Stopping a prudent distance away, he demanded, "Somebody mind telling me what the hell is going on here?" 

Stepping out of the crowd, a tall, red-haired woman gave Ellison glare for glare as she exclaimed, "They started it! They tried to take our leader, our mentor! We were simply protecting him." Wiping the blood from her hands onto her purple tee-shirt, the woman pointed an accusatory finger. "Look, they've hurt him!" 

Jim glanced over his shoulder to see the paramedics working on someone on the ground, Blair keeping a close eye on the proceedings. Sighing, he turned back to the woman. "OK, let's just establish a few facts here, all right? Like who are you, who is that, and why would those people want to hurt him?" 

"My common name isn't important. I am called Dewey Decimal, First High Disciple to Chick N. Lyttle, founder and leader of the great truth movement [lib.org.com](http://lib.org.com)/" 

"You're a bunch of librarians?!" came an astonished voice from behind Ellison. Blair moved to stand next to his partner. 

"Yes!" said the High Disciple haughtily. "Our revered leader had called us all here to warn us that the first sign had occurred, and to tell us to prepare ourselves. Those non-believers heard him preaching the truth and attacked. We simply protected ourselves." 

"Sign? First sign of what?" asked Blair, ignoring Ellison's negatory hand gesture. The cop was certain he didn't want to know anymore, but unfortunately, the grad student hated a mystery. 

"The first of three signs that signal the end of the world. The sky is falling, and we must be prepared for it." 

"What was the sign?" persisted Blair over Ellison's protests. 

"Brother John reported he saw a pig fly. That is the first portend. The other two will soon follow, and we must make haste to get ready." 

"Oookay, that's enough of that!" put in Ellison before Blair could open his mouth again. "You're coming down to the station with me, along with this revered leader of yours. Maybe there we can sort this all out without laying an egg." 

The High Disciple greeted this news with a toss of her hair and a snort. 

"Uh, Jim, that may not be such a good idea." Blair was hesitant to argue with his partner in front of a suspect, so he drew the other man away towards the fallen leader. "I really think this guy needs to go to the hospital, man. That mob was tough; they tarred and feathered him." 

"They did not!" came an indignant squawk. Ellison glanced over and met two fierce black eyes. "These feathers are mine! I'm a Dorking!" 

"Whatever," sighed the big cop, having had all he could stand by this point. Turning, he called out to a uniformed officer, "Sanders, bring the dork with his side order of disciple down to the station, all right?" Jim half-turned, then said, "Make sure you cuff him, you hear? We don't need that loony bird running amuck like a chicken with its head cut off at the precinct." 

He then headed for his truck, ignoring Lyttle's offended, "I'm not a loony bird, I'm a Dorking!" 

Some 30 minutes later, Jim looked up as Sanders escorted his two prisoners into the Major Crimes bullpen. "So, Simon," finishing his verbal report to his astounded boss, "here comes the dork and dewied disciple now." 

"I am not a dork!" ranted Lyttle, "I am a Dorking! An English species of chicken characterized by a brown comb and wattle rather than red, and as for down there..." 

"Oh, please, let's not go there," moaned Banks, looking a little green. 

The Cascade PD captain was fixed with a beady glare. "Down there at my feet," the prisoner emphasized loftily, "I have three toes instead of the usual four." 

"Are you sure you don't need to go to the hospital, man?" Blair asked earnestly into the small silence. "That tar must've caused quite a few burns and those feathers must be itching like crazy." 

"For that last time, I was not tarred and feathered! These are mine!" Clucking angrily, the felon pulled and struggled against his handcuffs. "They were trying to pluck me, for heaven's sake; yank out all my feathers!" 

"You're doing a pretty fair job of that on your own," observed Banks dryly as a small snow storm of brown feathers settled on Ellison's desk and computer. "Bless you," he added to his best detective as Ellison erupted into a window-rattling sneeze. 

"He's allergic to chicken feathers," Blair said helpfully as his partner lasered a teary, red-eyed glare at the agitated perp. 

Several concussive sneezes later, Ellison roared, "Will you sit down and stop that!?" as the upset cult guru continued to flap around, losing feathers by the handful as he fought and cussed at his restraints. 

"I can't help it!" exploded Lyttle. "I have to get out of here. The sky is going to fall! The sky is going to fall!" 

"I know, Master, I know." A worried and harassed-looking Dewey Decimal tried to soothe her leader. "Listen, you," she yelled, whirling on Ellison. "We haven't done anything wrong! They attacked us. We have to get out of here before the second sign..." 

"Well, Joel won't be making it back anytime soon," announced Henri Brown into the bullpen as he strolled through the doors. 

Diverted, Banks asked "Why?" as Jim took a minute to blow his nose and wipe his streaming eyes. "I thought you were supposed to pick him up at the airport." 

"I was just there," answered Brown. Joel Taggart had been sent back east on a prisoner exchange detail and should have returned to Cascade on the afternoon flight. "All of northern Michigan was socked in by an unexpected winter storm, so Joel's plane was diverted to Hell, where it's currently snowed in." 

A screech brought everyone's attention back to the handcuffed prisoner, who was now dancing and hopping about in an even more agitated fashion. Beside him, the High Disciple had gone pale, her freckles standing out like bizarre connect-the-dots. 

"It's the second sign," she whispered tremulously, hand going to her mouth. She and her leader exchanged frightened glances. "Hell has frozen over." 

"The sky is falling, the sky is falling!" yelped Lyttle, once more flapping frantically and sending chicken feathers drifting down over the entire bullpen. 

"Oh, for..." Before Ellison could finish his statement, Dewey spun and headed out the bullpen doors. "I'll be back, Master, don't worry!" She called over her shoulder as she headed into the elevator car. "I must tell the others!" A slight `ding' announced the car was descending. 

"Well, that's certainly appropriate," sighed Ellison, looking for his bottle of aspirin. "That woman is a dingaling." 

"Jim," admonished Blair, fighting to keep a grin off his face. He vanished into the break room, reappearing moments later with a can of fruit juice from the vending machines. "Here, use this to take your aspirin." 

"Thanks, Chief," Ellison said gratefully, swallowing a handful. 

Banks had opened his mouth to return to the interrogation of their bizarre prisoner when he saw Ellison tilt his head and frown slightly. Well knowing the sign of an intently listening Sentinel, he traded puzzled glances with Sandburg. Blair shrugged, then asked quietly, "Jim? What do you hear?" 

"A rumble," muttered Ellison. "A low rumble, almost a roar. Can't you hear it? Can't you feel it? The whole station is shaking." 

Sandburg paled slightly. "An earthquake?" he asked, licking his lips nervously. 

The reply came from behind him. "No, it's not an earthquake." 

An ashen-faced High Disciple stood in the bullpen doorway. "That is my sisters and brothers in [lib.org.com](http://lib.org.com)/ heading for the roof. The time is at hand." She turned to her leader, saying softly, "As I went out to inform our people of the second sign, the news came over Sister Sue's radio." 

Lyttle swallow audibly. "The third sign?" he squawked hoarsely. 

"Yes, Master." 

Eyeing them uneasily, Jim hated himself for asking, "Just what is this supposed third sign?" 

Never taking her eyes from the distraught Lyttle, Dewey Decimal said, "The St. Joseph, Missouri City Council voted to allow copies of the `Gay Kama Sutra' into general library circulation." 

On the heels of that apocalyptic announcement, a loud snapping sound was heard. Jerking his head upward, Ellison stared in shock and horror at the numerous large cracks appearing in the ceiling. "Hit the deck!" he yelled, grabbing Blair as he dived under his desk. 

A high-pitched scream of over-stressed metal rods was followed by a booming roar as first the roof of the Cascade PD station, and then the ceiling of the Major Crimes bullpen, caved in. Choking and gasping from the cloying dust and debris, Ellison clutched his lover tightly against him as small pieces of roof continued to rain down on the destroyed area. For his part, Sandburg burrowed in further and hung onto the larger man like a limpet. 

"Christ..." came an awe-struck voice. 

"Is everyone all right?" boomed out Banks as he crawled out from under Taggart's desk. He breathed a sigh of relief as his detectives one by one emerged from their hiding places, shaken, but mostly unscathed. Noting Rafe's stunned and glassy stare as he gazed at the huge rent in his $400 Armani jacket, Banks diagnosed a slight case of shock, but that seemed to be the worst of it. He turned around to see Ellison stumble upright, then reach down to pull his partner to his feet. "You two all right?" he asked as the two men proceeded to check each other out...umm, he amended mentally, check each other out for injuries. 

"Yeah, Simon, we're fine," announced Ellison, a note of relief in his voice. Giving his lover's tempting little butt a final pat, he turned to his boss. "What the hell happened?" 

"Well, it's just a guess," offered Banks, "but I'd bet you anything you cared to mention, that we exceeded the weight limit on the roof, and the sky...I mean, the roof... just caved in." He looked around at the various dust and debris covered librarians, just now staggering to their feet. "We'll have to have the engineers verify that, of course." 

"Oh, of course," echoed Ellison, a huge grin in place. 

Suddenly, a soft sobbing caught both men's attention and they went over to where Blair was silently patting a weeping High Disciple on the shoulder. At their feet, broken and plucked, lay Chick N. Lyttle. 

Sandburg looked up at their arrival, announcing solemnly, "He's dead, Jim." 

Several of her fellow librarians helped Dewey Decimal to her feet, and led her from the bullpen. 

"Too bad," muttered Banks softly. He gave a huge sigh as he gazed around at his shattered domain, and the dusty survivors of the cult's attack. "Hey, people, listen up," he said suddenly. "Let's turn this tragedy into something positive. Picnic, my place, this Saturday." He glanced down at the body at his feet, then back up. 

"I'll provide the fried chicken." 

* * *

End A Fowl Tale by PJ: NeedACon@aol.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


End file.
